Homicide
by LovelyFangirls
Summary: John doesn't think he's good enough of a detective thanks to Sherlock always putting him down during cases. But he finds Sherlock dead in the flat one morning, a card left over his body, inviting John into a game that has him utilizing the skills Sherlock taught him. Maybe he's a better detective then he thought. M for gory details and such. JOINT WRITTEN WITH DR. KAITIE HOLMES! :D
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

John frowned, staring at his flat mate. He was bent over a corpse, examining it with his magnifying glass. He knew, any second now, that the detective would call him over to try his hand at deducing. And he would fail again. Sherlock was constantly encouraging him to notice things, to make connections. John tried, he really did, but he was an ordinary person. And ordinary people couldn't do what Sherlock did.

"John?"

"Hmm?" he asked, shaking his thoughts away.

"Your turn."

Knowing resistance was futile, John sighed and crouched down by his friend.

"Well? What do you see?"

John glanced over the body, skimming for anything that could have stuck out to the consulting detective. "Um. She's been to a bar, or a place with a bar recently." Sherlock seemed pleased.

"Why?"

John pointed to the black Xs drawn on the back of her hands. "They do that for minors so they don't get alcohol. Since it's hardly faded, she went yesterday or today."

"Good. What else?"

"Um." He couldn't see anything else, so he reached forward and placed a gloved hand on her arm. "Full rigor mortis. She's been dead for at least twelve hours." He looked for cause of death and found it. A single bullet wound on the back of her head. "It was a point-blank shot," he murmured, examining it. "She should have fallen forward, right? But she's lying neatly on her back. Someone arranged her body."

"Good," Sherlock complimented, smiling a little.

John felt a rush of pride. It was crushed as soon as his flat mate turned to Lestrade and gave a detailed explanation of where she'd been for the last three days, what she did, who killed her, and why. He went home feeling useless.


	2. Finding Him

Sherlock joined him. He was dawning that blue robe again. That rode was always bringing about trouble it seemed, Sherlock always managed to put it on before problems began. What a stupid robe...

"Why are you sulking?" he asked, giving John a light shock.

Small splashed of tea spilled on his jumper, "Sherlock... I'm not sulking."

"You're sulking. It doesn't become you knock it off."

Angry, "Well I can't very well just turn it off now can I? That's not how it works!"

"Well why are you angry?"

"BECAUSE YOU'RE INTOLLERABLE!" John screamed, regretting the words just as soon as he'd said them.

Sherlock frowned, "Did I do something?"

"You- you-... No... I just can't do anything on my own." he sighed, trying not to let his voice crack.  
Sherlock didn't say anything. He just stood from his chair, heading for his bedroom. He paused only for a moment, "I'm taking a rest." He looked back to John as if for a approval.

The little man only groaned, "Fine!"

It was near noon and Sherlock was late. Actually, Sherlock was usually the first to be awake if he'd slept at all. He hadn't come out of his room yet though. Sighing, John set his cup onto the table before standing. He shuffled over to Sherlock's door before knocking. No answer. He tried again, still without reply. Starting to get concerned, John turned the knob and pushed the door open. Nothing in the room stirred, not even Sherlock's sleeping form. He must have been very tired to be acting like this. John crossed the room to the bed, shaking his friend lightly.

"Sherlock? Sherlock you need to wake up." Nothing... "Sherlock?"

"SHERLOCK!"


	3. The Autposy

The ambulance took an eternity to reach the flat. John tried his hardest to revive his friend, but he didn't respond to anything. _Can't be dead_, he thought over and over, as he preformed CPR. A stubborn genius like Sherlock never just up and died-it was impossible. The universe had to explode first.

"Don't you dare be dead!" he shouted at his friend. He felt hands on his shoulders; the paramedics had arrived. They attached a breathing mask to the detective's head and set to work, trying to bring him back. John stood back, out of the way, watching anxiously. This would work. Sherlock would be just fine. And when he got out of the hospital, John could yell at him for ODing or whatever stupid thing had gotten him into this mess.

Unless...

It could have been...

No. Not even for one second would he let himself believe that Sherlock Holmes had been murdered. It was impossible. No one ever got to him! He was cleverer then the whole lot! Even if someone did want to kill him it'd be damn near impossible. The medical personal tried everything. CPR, defibrillator, even an injection of adrenaline. Sherlock never moved. John could only stand there, numb, as they proclaimed his best friend's time of death, his body to be wheeled away.

John was granted special permission to see Sherlock's corpse. Lestrade was hesitant however, Molly a mess of tears. He pulled back the sheet, revealing his pale, lifeless friend. Sherlock Holmes was dead. AGAIN! John had prayed endlessly that it was just another elaborate scheme Sherlock cooked up, that he was secretly fine just insistent on giving John a heart attack.

Stupid Sherlock!

John fought back his tears as he started to examine the body. No marks on the skin... other then the cut Sherlock had managed to give himself when trying to cook. John smiled to himself, tears threatening to boil over. Sherlock had tried to apologize to him by making dinner. He'd set about it like some different type of experiment, cutting his fingers as he chopped the tomatoes. The sight alone made John forgive him in an instant.

After drawing in a shaky breath, John continued. He looked about, spending countless minutes in attempt to re-create how Sherlock would have done it. He examined every little detail, right down to the dirt under his fingernails. No sign of a struggle in the least. John sighed heavily... so what had killed him then?

Wearily, John gave the okay for Molly to begin her autopsy.

Autopsies are not a pretty thing to witness. Lestrade had to vacate the room before they even began. Molly started with Sherlock's chest, slicing through layers of skin, fat, muscle, forming a V on his upper chest. Carving a single line down, she finished the Y-incision just above the dead man's groin. It was a fairly bloodless task, since gravity had already begun its work in Sherlock's veins. John had to look away when Molly pulled back the flesh flaps. He stifled a sob when he heard her breaking his rib cage open.

"No obvious damage to any of the interior organs," Molly reported, sniffling. John glanced at her and had to look away immediately. He didn't want to remember his flat-mate like that.

Man up, he snarled at himself. You're a soldier, a doctor. You've seen worse. And Sherlock needs you to fix this. That was the only thought that got him to look at the open corpse. Molly set to work, cutting out organs, examining them, weighing them. She took blood in a vial and set it to the side for testing. Then she moved on to his head. The army doctor felt sick as she lifted the circular bone saw. The whirring sound it made as it spun made him nauseous. She cut into Sherlock's skull, moving it around the cranium until it meet in a full circle. The saw was turned off and set to the side. With a POP! she lifted the top of the skull away, revealing his grey brain matter.

"There it is," Molly murmured reverently. "The brain of the great Sherlock Holmes. I wonder...John, did Sherlock ever tell you what he wanted done with his body?"

"This time?" John asked bitterly. "Probably buried again. At least we won't have to buy another headstone."

Shocked, Molly didn't know how to respond. Of course John had a right to be angry, but...

"You expected him to be alive again, didn't you?" she asked softly, cradling Sherlock's brain.

Of course he did.


	4. Clueing for Looks

John was determined. Molly's reports had come back conclusive with reality. Sherlock's stomach still held traces of undigested poison. Someone had murdered Sherlock. Sure, there were lots of people John could put down on the perspective grudge list, but this was serious. He hadn't cried. In fact, he'd refused to. There was still work to be done. He was... determined.

John _would_ find Sherlock's murderer if it killed him. He'd been taught everything he need to know really, from Sherlock's point of view. It would be possible. He could do it. He just needed confidence... lots and... lots of confidence.

But where would he even start? His friend had put hundreds, if not thousands, of criminals away. Plenty of them were before John had even met the consulting detective.  
The first thing he should do, he decided, was find out where Sherlock had been poisoned. If he knew where, and with what, he would have a starting point...

John drafted Lestrade. The DI would come in handy at some point most certainly. First, there was the process of finding who _could_ have done it. John asked Lestrade for a list of any and all of Sherlock previous put-aways that were freed from prison at the time, then for a list of their immediate family. It was going to take a while, but it was something. Something he could do to keep himself occupied.

The list was over three pages, two rows on each. He let out a heavy sigh as he glanced at the first few. Lisa O'Brian. The girlfriend of Sherlock's latest put away. She lived just on the edge of Luton. Not too far thankfully. It struck John as he settled into his car after exiting Scotland Yard, what if this wasn't about someone getting even for jail time or... any of that. Personal grudges maybe?

Well, the first to mind were Sally and Anderson. Neither were exactly what you'd call, 'criminal masterminds' not even murderer material really. The thought was quickly dismissed as his engine turned, and the car roared to life.

Lisa O'Brian was in short, a bitch. He'd come up to her door subtly, pressing the doorbell with hesitation. She came to the call with a baby on her hip, badly tattered T-shirt and curly black hair. Honestly, he'd hesitated seeing them. It looked a lot like Sherlock's...

"Can I help you?" she snapped, bouncing the toddler for better grip.

"Ahh, yes. I'm here on behalf of Sherlock Homes..."

"The bastard who put James away!? Because of him I don't have the support to feed my family! That bloody fool locked him away!" she cringed, "What are you here for? Come to take me too? Maybe lock my little girl away as well?! You asshole. Get out. Don't come back!" she screamed, slamming the door promptly behind her as she turned on her heel.

For a few moments, John just stood there, completely bewildered. He hadn't even said anything and she'd blown up in his face... His confidence shot, he returned slowly to his car, crossing the first name off the list.

If this was how every name on the list was going to behave, then he wasn't going to get very far. He'd had some hopes when he had set out, but they had lowered. However, he was stubborn for Sherlock, he had to see this through to the end. And that meant going through each of the names, looking for clues.

Eight hours later, twelve names through, John was exhausted. This was getting him nowhere. None of them seemed to be capable of murder until he mentioned Sherlock's name. He'd been thrown out of more houses than he could count.  
But none of them knew the detective was dead. He'd taken to casually mentioning Sherlock was alive, and using his dead friend's methods, he observed their reactions. They were angry, of course, but none were hiding anything.  
I've got to be more efficient with this, John groaned, leaning back in his chair and scrubbing his eyes. Sherlock would have caught the murderer by now...  
No. He couldn't keep relying on him. He was dead. It was up to John now.  
Flipping through the list, he decided he should cut down on his work load. Simple background checks and a tiny bit of stalking should narrow the list down. People without an alibi would have to be questioned in person.  
Turning on his laptop, he went to Sherlock's favorite 'personal history' site and got to work.


	5. The Missing Piece

John let out an exasperated sigh before crashing against his desk. It had taken nearly two hours of vigorous work, but his three page list had been lowered to nearly half a page. He mentally kicked himself for not thinking about doing it sooner. He hadn't gotten much sleep since Sherlock's death after all, and it had taken a toll on him. What had it been? Three? Four days? Less then a few hours in total most likely.

It must have been adrenaline that kept him going before, because it had only just hit him. With a drained yawn, John stalked into Sherlock's room. There was time to sleep now. There was only half of a list left to work with, he'd drive out to the first name tomorrow. Confidence restored, he snuggled into Sherlock's bed, coveting the lingering smell of his flat mate on the sheets. He missed Sherlock... so much.

He'd taken to the habit of rarely eating, and sleep hardly felt necessary. The only thing that really made him get up in the morning at all was the drive to find Sherlock's killer. He went through the first two names quickly, both dead beats. The third had given him some trouble, especially after the grandmother chased him off the front with her walker... The fourth made him hesitate. He hadn't had any luck with anyone. There had to have been at least another twenty names on the list... Fail, fail, go home with an injury, fail, get yelled at, fail, fail, fail... Big. Fat. Fail.

He was giving up. Down to the last two names. He decided to take a break from subjecting himself to all this idiotic abuse. All he wanted was some help. Lestrade promised to take the last two, realizing just how broken down John looked when he returned to the morgue. Greg and sally had been talking, about John in fact. This wasn't healthy, any of it. John was slowly deteriorating, but he insisted on one last look at Sherlock, before Molly had him cremated. One last try, the final hope. Then he'd be done.

Molly met him at the funeral home. The morticians had already embalmed Sherlock and had him ready for viewing. His coffin was long and glossy black, with white satin lining. It was dramatic, just like him. He was wearing a simple suit, his hair was slicked back, and he looked like he was sleeping-for the most part. Death had robbed him of that spark, the thing that made him Sherlock. This...was just a corpse. A dead husk that looked like his friend.  
Molly guarded the door while John spoke to Sherlock's body. It was different, but he'd take what he got.  
"Sherlock. I came...I wanted to say good-bye. Again." He paused, dragging a hand over his face. "You know, you promised you'd never leave me again. Why-?" Again, he had to stop and collect himself. He was not~ going to cry. "I'm trying to find who killed you, Sherlock. I'm doing a real bang-up job, too."  
The body didn't seem to appreciate his sarcasm. John leaned closer, staring at his face. Everything seemed pinched, drawn. The doctor side of him knew it was because there was no steady blood flow to keep the muscles in place. He was about to place a kiss to Sherlock's cheek when he noticed something.  
His left ear. It wasn't real. Tentatively, he touched it. Wax.  
What the hell had they done to his ear?!  
"Molly?" he called. She hurried in, shutting the door behind her.  
"Yes?"  
John pointed out the fake part, and she examined it closely. "I-I-didn't notice that. His hair must have been hiding it."  
"How the hell-He was poisoned." John was confused. How had this happened? There was no special poison to make someone's ear fall off. There was something more to this. And he was going to get to the bottom of it.  
It was time to return to the crime scene.


End file.
